


To Make Men Forget Themselves

by magnificentbastards



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Breathplay, M/M, drunkenness and debauchery, unbalanced unhealthy unequal relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificentbastards/pseuds/magnificentbastards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Enjolras says, “Go home.”</p><p>“Ah!” cries Grantaire, getting to his feet faster than he ought, so that the room sways dangerously around him, “but I have eaten the fruit of the lotus tonight — or drunk its juice, at least — and forgot all thought of my hearth and homestead.”'</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Make Men Forget Themselves

**Author's Note:**

> drabble; written for Barricade Day June 5th-6th 2013 promptfest on my [tumblr](http://marthur.tumblr.com)

“ — and yet I think Paris a new Thebes, tonight,” says Grantaire, and when he throws back his head a wave of dizziness overwhelms him, “or perhaps an ancient one; I have had my milk, my nectar, and my wine — the latter, in any case — the candles are like to fragrant pine-torches, in their light the wool of my coat is nearly fawn-skin, the tangles of my hair almost a wreath of ivy — I am missing a thyrsus to beat, though, one that is not my own.”

Enjolras says, “Go home.”

“Ah!” cries Grantaire, getting to his feet faster than he ought, so that the room sways dangerously around him, “but I have eaten the fruit of the lotus tonight — or drunk its juice, at least — and forgot all thought of my hearth and homestead.”

“Then allow me to assist you,” says Enjolras shortly, and it takes Grantaire a moment to fix his gaze properly on Enjolras, who is sitting at his empty table with a pile of papers in front of him, alone in the backroom save for Grantaire sprawled in his chair, “You live in lodgings on the Rue Erasme. It will take you five minutes to walk there — ten, perhaps, in your current state — and if you leave at once the porter will still be there to see you in when you return.”

“Yes, I know, I know,” Grantaire says, and it is very easy, in fact, to get on his feet and take the three or four steps over to lean against the edge of Enjolras’ table, “the porter is quite accustomed to my comings and goings — to-ings and fro-ings — my hithers and thithers. He is a very patient man.”

“Doubtless more patient than me,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire rests his elbows on the table, curls the fingers of one hand around the bicep of his opposite arm (an endeavour which takes two tries, but is successful eventually), and says, “You have the patience of a saint; only you do not bestow it upon me.”

He is very close to Enjolras now, so close that if Enjolras’ hair smelled of anything he thinks he would be able to breathe the scent in. Enjolras takes issue with this — or with the closeness, or the liquor on Grantaire’s breath, or simply the whole situation — and quite suddenly he is pushing Grantaire away with his hand splayed on Grantaire’s collarbone through his open collar and his fingers reaching up to press against Grantaire’s neck.

Enjolras pulls his fingers away at once when Grantaire — out of surprise more than anything else — moves backward, and Grantaire does not think at all when he says, “Put your hand back.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your hand — would you kindly put it back on my neck — I liked it there.”

The expression on Enjolras’ face is one Grantaire cannot judge; but then Grantaire can judge very little, now. Enjolras says, “The drink has robbed you of your senses. Go home.”

“Yes, it’s true,” says Grantaire, and his voice grows unsteady, “I am mindless, I am savage, uncivilised, insane — I am the mountain lion, or the hoard of god-ridden women who tear it limb from limb — only, would you? I will leave afterward. Please.”

There is a very long moment of what would be silence, were it not for Grantaire’s heart thudding in his ears as though a division of National Guardsmen marched to its drumbeat inside his head.

Grantaire’s eyes focus and fix on Enjolras’ lifted hand — his fingertips stained black with ink, his knuckles bruised from the last time he had call to use his fists — and then lose it again, as it passes out of his sight-line to rest against the base of his neck. Enjolras’ fingertips touch against the side of his neck, Enjolras’ thumb presses neither light nor forceful against the pulse jumping there.

“Is this what you want?” Enjolras asks.

“What I  _want_ ,” Grantaire says, and when he talks he can feel his throat contract under Enjolras’ hand (which means that Enjolras can feel it, too); his voice nearly cracks, “I want — do not ask me, you will open the floodgates, you will release a deluge — and you may swim through it, but I will certainly drown. I want you to grip harder.”

“I will hurt you,” says Enjolras, and his voice sounds almost  _careful_ ; Grantaire reminds himself that it is not at all the same as  _caring_.

He says, “Yes.”

Enjolras stares at him, his head tilted a little to one side, his lips very slightly parted, his gaze intent. Then, slowly, he presses the tips of his fingers into the side of Grantaire’s neck, pushes his thumb inward to meet the muscle it covers; Grantaire gasps, quite involuntarily, and there seems little use in closing his mouth after that. When Enjolras moves his hand upward so that the top of his palm presses hard against Grantaire’s Adam’s apple, Grantaire does not think to stop himself pushing his hips and the front of his trousers into the edge of the table he leans against.

“Is this what you want?” Enjolras asks, again, and his fingernails dig exquisitely inward as he speaks.

When Grantaire says, “Yes—” Enjolras’ grip chokes the voice out of him, pushes the word out of his mouth cracked and desperate and breathless. Grantaire jerks his hips forward — he cannot help himself — and the feet of the table thud against the floorboards of the café, and Grantaire shivers from head to toe and gasps and  _gasps_  for air that Enjolras at once squeezes out of him. 

He cannot tell, now, if the dizziness is from drink or lust or lack of breath — he hopes it is all three. 

And then all at once Enjolras releases his grip, and the choking shuddering exhale of breath Grantaire lets out sounds more like a moan than anything else — he stumbles forward, unsteady, tries to stand and staggers instead. Enjolras clenches and unclenches the hand that had gripped Grantaire’s neck and then steps backward, straightening the pile of papers on the table.

“You said you would leave, afterward,” says Enjolras curtly, “I advise you do so. I would be displeased to find you blacked out here tomorrow morning. For my own part, I am going to finish my work at home. Goodnight.” 

Enjolras pulls his coat over his shoulders, sets his hat atop his head, and departs without another word — without, in fact, another glance. 

Alone in the backroom, Grantaire sinks into the nearest chair, his eyes half-closed to the flickering pine-torch candlelight. When he pushes the heel of his hand hard against the front of his trousers, groaning into his sleeve, he feels somehow strange, misshapen in his own skin — there is a phantom hand on his neck, taking its form in more than just the bruises Enjolras’ grip will have left, and Grantaire doubts he will ever stop feeling it.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from Euripides' _Bacchae_ , t. Moses Hadas 
> 
> it's good to sometimes remind myself that I do, in fact, still ship E/R -- I'm just picky as hell about it


End file.
